Dragon Fire
by Lonerofthepack
Summary: Beauty and the Beast. The Beast is a dragon, one of the most dangerous creatures to walk the face of the earth. Belle is a girl, intent only on saving the life of her father. Can the Beast win her love before it is too late?
1. Prolouge

Prologue

_We are such stuff _

_As dreams are made on; and our little life _

_Is rounded with a sleep_

—Shakespeare, _The Tempest_

Perhaps her life had started as a delightful dream, ten-year-old Belle mused from her place in the caravan her family was traveling with. But if it had, it had turned to a nightmare in a blink. Once, as little as two months ago, they'd been wealthy, the richest family of merchants in Asha, below only the nobility in funds. They'd had all manner of material things—far too many to count, really—as well as family bonds that had been close and loving, considering their station.

And then her mother died, three years before, and her unfortunate, still-grieving father had lost all of their great wealth in a series of losses and accidents, till they were left with only the meagerest of things, their family expelled in shame from the city. They left with, literally, only what they could carry in a wagon and the horse that Belle rode, now called 'Armel', who she'd saved from a cruel death at the hands of a villainous farrier the year before. They were on their way now to a village called Belkin, hundreds of miles from anything familiar, where her Grand-mère had left them a little cottage on the outskirts of the town.

A sudden tingle at the back of Belle's neck sent a shiver down her spine. The feeling of being watched had plagued her for the last three miles, ever since they had entered these woods. Stories of wolves and bandits were not as prevalent in her mind as those of worse things: ghouls, witches, werewolves. The Magic Wars had been over for nearly two hundred years, but she'd heard the stories of the horrible things could happen to travelers this far to the north.

_ Cat's-eyes opened, staring keenly straight at her, the irises purple in color. An angular face that wasn't…human…surrounded them, clad with tight silver scales. There was blood, dark red, spilling onto nearly colorless granite, and rose petals of the same shade scattered about. _

_ "Belle..."_

With a start she jerked away from the vision, throwing down the mental walls she'd cultivated at a young age and refusing to allow it back into her mind. Regardless of what her Grand-mère had said, she didn't have to accept what her dubious 'gift' could bring her, these little flashes of what was, what might be, and what had been. She refused to—not when it was so unreliable. Not when she hadn't even been able to foresee her own mother's death, three years ago. No, Maman was gone, and Belle would never use her power again, not willingly.

"Belle? Are you alright?" her eldest sister asked from her seat in the wagon. Belle gazed over at the beautiful woman her sister had become and smiled reassuringly.

"I'm fine, Esme. Really."


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

_But I have that within which passes show,  
these but the trappings and the suits of woe._

—Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

_P__ain rocked through him, stretching, twisting. His mouth opened to cry out, but there was no sound. His vocal cords were changing and reshaping themselves. He doubled over, writhing on the floor like a mongrel dog, panicking as his body changed its shape around him. Above him, he knew, there was a woman with the face of an avenging angel. She had brought the pain of the changing. But he, or perhaps circumstance, was to blame, for having finally pushed her too far. Too many people had died for either to ever be the same._

_ "And thus you shall remain, until there comes the one that will give you what you lack, despite your form. You shall have one hundred years in which to undo this curse, else you shall be trapped thus forever."_

With a jolt, the dragon bolted from his uneasy sleep, uncurling from a ball to shudder with the remembrance of pain. Sinuous, he slipped from the faded splendor of the bed he'd slept in for over a hundred years, ignoring the regal ruin of the room around him. Nearly a hundred years of periodic fits of destructive rage and then the subsequent depressions had made its mark on his personal chambers. Dust and cobwebs of the decades were thick, and went unacknowledged. On paws ending with talons better fitted for ripping and shredding than walking, he padded to the only piece of furniture that had been spared, and reared up onto powerful hind legs to see better. A bowl sat upon it, water filling it halfway. Once decorated with ten large roses—they had faded slowly, decade-roses. There was only one left now. The others had been replaced with nine smaller roses, year-roses. They were gone now too, leaving the last rose to fade, surrounded by thorny vines that were counting down his months. Only three vines and the final rose remained, meaning he had but four months until he was trapped forever in this shape.

His household, fortunately, had been spared. They'd been whisked away, lest some awful backwash of power catch them in a spell meant to punish one person. He was thankful for that at least. He wasn't sure that he could stand being the cause of such horrors in another human being—especially not his family and servants he'd known since childhood.

He was alone, in this monstrous stone castle, and no matter how glad of it, he was achingly lonely. Kept alive in the great stone prison, like a criminal, by the same force that held him captive. Food and water were provided, wood lain in the fireplaces for him to light if he desired. Every door in the place save the one to his chamber would swing open for him—to save him the minor frustration of struggling with handles and knobs, he thought with a bitter chuckle. The furniture could be destroyed only in his chambers—everywhere else, it waited only until he left the room to reform itself, even the paintings. He avoided the gallery now—he hated the paintings. Every single member of his family for ten generations staring down at him, sneering. And the last, with the memory of disappointment and disgust always brought to the forefront of his mind at the sight, was doubtlessly the worst. He avoided it, and indeed most of the rooms now, for the memories were painful at best.

There had been, once, visitors. They had been surprisingly abundant, even in the years after the area gained its reputation for being haunted. They had stayed sometimes, occasionally for several days…until they saw him. He knew not to show himself, to never, ever show himself. Even so, they fled for various reasons, and over the years there were fewer and fewer humans that dared to enter his home.

The winter wind howled outside his windows, snow whipping against the glass in a frenzy. He looked down again, having learned by now not to flinch at what he saw reflected back at him. A long, angularly reptilian face was reminiscent of both a dog's and a horse's, with a rigid crest that swept back from his forehead, covered in the tiniest of silver-grey scales, similar to the ones that covered the rest of his body. They interlocked, like the supplest chain mail in the world. Eyes that were dark silver with too familiar hopelessness stared back at him in the water.

His body was the size of a large pony, though longer with the serpentine tail and elongated neck. Wings that could carry him remained folded tightly on his back—bat-like and huge when fully unfolded. He had learned that he could breathe fire, scorching the walls of his once elegant abode. A ridge of tough scale ran along his spine down to his tail, affecting his fluid flexibility not a whit. Compared to the dragons of old—those great fire-breathing, village-destroying monsters from even farther north—he was pitiably small, barely a fourth as large. But he was a dragon nonetheless.

He gazed into the mirror for a moment longer, resigned to the face he saw, now. The first several years had horrified him.

Something caught his attention, some tiny sound or scent on the air. Curious as to the change, he dropped back to the ground and padded toward the door and down the spiral stairs that led to the rest of his prison. The scent was slightly heavier, coming from the dinning room. Something was in his castle, perhaps a visitor. He glanced briefly out a window on his way toward the great hall; the blizzard must have forced them in. They wouldn't have been here before, so they couldn't know of him. No one who had found his castle could ever return or give accurate directions back, the enchantment wouldn't allow it. Whether it was for his safety, or just one more way to punish, he knew not.

On silent paws, he padded to the largest, grandest dinning hall, halting unseen in the shadows. An old man; a merchant, judging by clothes and pack; and his pony were eating heartily beside a roaring fire. The dragon made sure to stay downwind of the pony; he didn't want to alarm the two. They seemed weary enough without that kind of unpleasant surprise. Instead, with barely a rustle of scales, he turned and retreated back into his dark home.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

_It is hard to believe that a man is telling the truth_

_when you know that you would lie if you were in his place._

—Henry Louis Mencken, _A Little Book in C Major_

It was quiet, so quiet in this massive place. Rhys glanced around nervously, wondering where the house's master was. There was a place setting, only one, at the long table, and enough food for five was laid out. The merchant could see no servants; no one was around to reprimand him from bringing his pony in with him from the storm, or take his dripping clock, or shoo him to the servant's quarters. The door of this incredible place had creaked open before him—an obvious invitation to enter—so he had.

He was regretting it now, of course. The oppressive silence, and the odd quality to the air—like a huge magic had been done long ago—lingered heavily. His pony munched on hay they had found waiting beside the table Rhys now sat at, while he ate from the dishes on the table, hoping against hope that the master of this place would not descend upon him in anger.

The old man shuddered at the sudden feeling of eyes upon him, glancing around, trying to see into the deep shadows thrown by the large fire in the fireplace. He thought, for just a moment, that the unseen eyes may have met his, but just as quickly discarded the idea. They had looked like cat's eyes—slit-pupiled and gleaming—but of course, that was ridiculous. No cat could be as tall as a man.

The dragon waited for what seemed like an eternity, curbing his curiosity until the winds outside had died down and dawn was heading swiftly on its way to wake the earth. He craved human company, the sound of a human voice, with an intensity born of endless loneliness. Finally, overcome by yearning, he left the room he'd ensconced himself in, and padded toward the guest room that visitors were always directed to.

He'd forgotten the pony.

The animal's head shot up as the scent of dragon—smoke and the faintest hint of roses—hit its nose. With its bridle bound to a sturdy candelabrum on the wall, it reared, screaming and lashing out with sharp front hooves. Cursing it, and himself, the dragon backed away slowly, unwilling to get in the way of flying feet as it fought the leather harness holding its head. The merchant appeared in the doorway, his clothes and hair rumpled. His face went as pale as the snow outside as he saw what had terrified his steed.

The dragon halted his retreat, not bothering to be irritated with himself. It was too late now to disappear back into the shadows; the man had already spotted him. Now the man would beg for his life, promise anything, anything, if only he was left alive. It was what they always did when they saw him.

He hadn't been wrong. The merchant started babbling the minute he recovered the use of his voice, explaining why he couldn't be eaten right now, that he still had a beautiful daughter to marry off waiting for him at home, and other children—Esme, who had apparently married a shopkeeper; Alessandria, wed to the cooper; and Clarisse, bound in matrimony to a farmer just three months ago—that would surely miss him and would likely send out a search party.

The dragon's head cocked, intrigued despite instinctual nausea at begging and pleading. It may well have simply been an unconscious effort to have a conversation, any conversation, with someone other than himself, but he was interested in the man's babbling.

"Tell me." It had been years since he'd last spoken a human tongue, and the request came out a growling command.

The merchant's eyes grew even wider as he huddled beside his shivering, wild-eyed mount. "My—my youngest, h-her name i-is B-Belle. Sh-she's nineteen n-now—nineteen years old. The l-living pic-picture of her m-mother. Sh-she's a good girl, a bit—a bit odd, but—" Rhys could see her in his mind's eye; so beautiful, so dear, that his heart broke.

"Odd? How?" Again, the dragon's voice cut over the old man's babbling in a harsh growl. Was this how his voice had become, then, in the decade since he'd last spoken to a human out loud? He could no longer remember if he'd always sounded like this, a deep menacing rumble in the dark.

"Sh-sh-she reads—b-books, your l-l-lordship—incessantly, s-s-sire."

The dragon's eyes narrowed on the gibbering merchant in honest bafflement.

"You find it…_odd_…that she reads books?"

Obviously he'd been left far behind in the technological advances in the past hundred years, but surely books hadn't become obsolete? The idea left a cold pit in his stomach. He had so little else constructive he could do in the confines of the castle, he often read endlessly. Reading was an escape, a precious asset, used to fill the void of the solitary existence he led. Anyone else that sought such an escape had his immediate sympathies. The idea that the magic, the beauty of books may have been taken from the world was too horrible to contemplate.

"N-no! No, of course no, sire—never." His eyes were wide; terrified that he'd insulted the creature in front of him. "If—if only you had met her, s-sir, you would see, I'm sure, wh-what a lovely girl s-she is."

The dragon didn't stop the flicker of flame from fluttering around his teeth, almost angry enough to enjoy the merchant's horrified whimper. The things humans would offer for their freedom rarely surprised him these days, but this old man was by far the most infuriating he'd encountered in quite some time. Not satisfied with threatening him with what would have been a pitch-fork-bearing mob, or offering a replacement, the blasted man had offered _his own daughter_.

"You would send your youngest daughter…to take your place." His glare was becoming molten, shifting from neutral silver to deep, fiery amber, laced through with red and electric blue, like flame. Even his own uncaring parents—probably—wouldn't have done such a thing. If this was an example of how parents treated their children in this day and age, the chit was probably better off with him!

"Fine, then. You have three days to send her to me, since she means so little to you. Get your pony, merchant, and leave my home."

The imprudent man started to stutter an apology, and was cut off by the dragon's roar, banishing him. With barely another sound, he fled, dragging his pony behind him until the animal overtook his puny efforts and bolted. The dragon watched his flight coldly until he was long gone, eyes gradually retreating back to cool pewter, darker now with disgust, directed at the merchant and himself.

What in the world had he been thinking? Why had he demanded the man's daughter—simply because the fool had irritated him? Had he learned _nothing_ in all these years? With a snarl that echoed like thunder in the empty halls, he turned from the window he'd watched the old man's retreat from and disappeared back into the familiar shadows, heading towards his chambers.

"Let me see her," he growled to the water-filled basin. He'd discovered this particular property of the bowl completely by accident, seven decades before, but had put it to little use—what was the use of seeing when one could not touch, taste, hear, or feel? It would only bring pain, and he had enough without borrowing more. The water in the basin clouded, roiled for a moment, and cleared. The village he'd known in childhood came into sight in miniature, changed now, and the focus of the mirror zoomed in to land upon a cottage a small distance from the town, one that had apparently been built long after his family had ceased ruling the area. It was a bit after dawn, and a young woman burst from the door, a basket and a pail dangling from her arm as she swung around to head towards a shed at the forest's edge, beyond a neatly tended garden. In a nearby paddock, a large horse lifted its head from its digging for grass, watching her with interest. A calico barn cat stared wide-eyed in the direction of the dragon's basin-mirror, only to be ignored by their watcher.

He blinked in surprise at the girl, his mild discomfort at spying on her layered over by the sight of her. The merchant had said she was lovely, but the dragon hadn't expected that he would have spoken so true. Her hair was a glorious mix of blonde and red and brown, gleaming softly in the pale winter light. It streamed down her back, held loosely back by a green ribbon that brought color to her drab brown dress. He couldn't see her eye-color, as her back was to him, but the sight of her narrow back and full hips was pleasing on a male level, and her profile reminded him of the one in the alabaster cameo his mother had once worn. She was tall for a woman, but her waist was trim, and she looked soft in all the right places.

His eyes narrowed. She appeared happy enough, no matter that her father was a devious fool. The niggling feeling that he had just wronged the girl horribly preyed on him, worrying at what remained of his human supply of guilt and insecurity.

The sight of her father's pony bolting toward the clearing, bearing the terrified merchant answered the dragon's questions. He closed his eyes, cursing his quick temper, and left the room. Now he could only pray that the merchant was enough of a scoundrel that he wouldn't keep his word…the dragon didn't want another ruined life on his conscious.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

_There is no such thing as bravery; only degrees of fear._

—John Wainwright

Several miles away, the merchant was breaking the news to his beautiful daughter, weaving a story about a horrible monster, a dragon, and his great fortress. Belle's eyes were wide with the appalling tale her father was telling.

"It—It hasn't harmed you, Papa?" Her worried eyes swept over his compact body, searching out any sign of pain or mistreatment.

"No, no, my dear, I'm perfectly alright," he assured her, but an anxious frown dogged his expression anyway. What would the dragon do if he didn't do as he'd inadvertently promised—send Belle up to that drafty excuse for a ruin? A trickle of sweat slid down his spine at the thought, despite the chill winter air.

"What? What's wrong?" Panic flashed, swift as lightening, through her mind. Not her father too! She'd lost her mother to illness when she was a helpless child—she wouldn't lose her father too! Not to something as cruel and unnatural as a dragon.

Lines of anxiety etched themselves across her father's forehead and dug deeply beside his mouth. "Belle, dearest Belle, you must understand. I had been trespassing when it caught me—I promised to return to the castle for—well, I promised to return. I leave tomorrow, early." He caught his daughter's hands, tried to chafe some warmth back into them. He'd think of something, surely, that could deliver them both from any harm.

Belle's eyes grew wide and she shook her fair head in dazed denial. "No. No—that can't be—why? What possible use could a dragon have for you?" Terror clutched at her throat with ripping claws—she refused to watch helplessly as another of her family disappeared, never to return.

"I don't know, dear heart, but I have to go." He _would_ find some way of talking the dragon out of claiming either of their lives. He had to.

"No! No—um—I'll go! The—the village depends on you to deliver goods to the city and bring back materials. You can't just disappear into this monster's clutches," she cried in a panic.

Rhys' eyes grew wide with horror. "No, Belle, absolutely not! No, no, a hundred thousand times no!" the merchant seemed unable to think up anything more convincing, so great was his terror that she would unknowingly fulfill his non-promise.

"Please, Papa_—_let me do this—"

"No! I forbid you from giving yourself to that monster, Belle! Forbid it! Do you hear me? You can not do this—for the love of God, the damned thing would probably eat you, Belle!" He clasped his youngest daughter by the shoulders, gave her a gentle shake. His wily old heart lurched horribly at the thought of his girl, his Belle actually going to that beast. He had _never_ even dreamed of actually giving up his beloved daughter. No matter how much she frustrated him by reading incessantly, refusing to socialize or marry. No matter what that…that _thing_ tried to threaten him with or do to him. His daughter _would not_ be sacrificed for him. That _he_ had promised the dragon her life, accidentally or not, not long ago was neatly forgotten; instead, only the dragon's demand for her rang in his ears.

Nevertheless, before dawn the next morning, while her father still slept uneasily, fully resolved and carrying no more than a change of clothes and a miniature of her family in a little satchel, Belle slipped out of the cottage, saddled Armel, and sent him trotting in the direction that her father had come the morning before.

* * *

At dawn, the dragon was disturbed by hoof beats on stone, and the faint creak of the gates swinging inward. He blinked confusedly, surrounded by the dust and paper of the library, before everything from the day came back with a rush of foreboding. Sucking in a lungful of dusty air, he pushed himself up from the stone floor, too accustomed to soreness to complain about the tension in his long neck and across his shoulders that came of sleeping on stone. He left _The Faerie Queen_ where it was on the floor, open to the page where he'd finally dozed off at, and padded toward the door of his sanctuary.

By the time he was downstairs, the hoof beats were fading away again. He hoped to the gods that meant she had taken one look and fled.

_Let her be gone—better that she go without ever seeing…_

He was in no such luck. Barely before he could leap for the shadows, the massive front doors swung open, hinges scraping open with a noise like the end of the world, revealing the girl he'd seen briefly in the basin.

With anguish ripping at his gut, he saw that she was even lovelier than she'd been in the basin. Somehow, that only made it worse. Early morning light poured in behind her, highlighting her features rather than casting them into shadow. It gleamed like fire off her long, wind-tossed hair, turning it to flame as it framed her finely boned, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were amber, the exact shade of good whiskey.

He shrank away instinctively from the light as she strode forward into his domain, trying to tell himself that it was for her sake. If he could perhaps spare her, spare her that first dreadful sight of him until she'd settled a bit maybe…

He threw shut the door on that particular train of thought with immediate revulsion. _What am I thinking? I want her __gone__, back to her father's cottage, back to her own life._

_Yes_, he assured himself as he followed the girl silently from the shadows; he wanted her far from him. She was a dangerous beacon of a hope he had no business encouraging. Still, there was some part of him that wanted her to stay, wanted the chance to fight his destiny, and that part of him was proving difficult to subdue.

The girl—_Belle,_ that fierce sliver of his mind hissed, _her name is Belle_—wandered through the castle, apparently aimlessly, pausing at various pictures of especially important ancestors that had warranted a place outside the gallery to make faces, and poking into dust-coated rooms.

This random study continued for the better part of an hour, until they found themselves in front of a pair of large, intricately carved wooden doors. Over them, _Aut disce aut discede_ was inlaid in onyx in the gray stone. An inexplicable hollowness gripped his insides, knowing that she had so quickly found his library.

She chuckled at the Latin motto that he had ordered inlaid months before his transformation, meaning 'either learn or leave'. The dragon watched, troubled, as the door swing open for her like she were an old friend. That little part of him, the one that had fought for her staying, was gave a smug "humph", as though to say 'I told you she was important'.

With a shiver at such a blatant use of magic, still unaware of her silent host, she entered—

—and gasped aloud from the wonder of it.

Shelves nearly fifteen feet tall ranged around the large room, with more along the walls stretching straight to the vaulted, painted ceiling. Ladders of rosewood made access to the higher shelves easy for someone of human size—the dragon had gone without those books that he couldn't reach for fear of knocking over a shelf or damaging one of his precious books.

Belle rushed forward, a small cry of pleasure flying from her lips as she gazed around at the literary splendor. With the elation of a true bibliophile, she spun around, to see all she could, no doubt—and caught sight of him instead, lurking in the doorway.

Immediately, he braced himself for her scream of terror, his entire body contracting at the certainty of her imminent rejection.

Surprisingly, there wasn't one. Not even a whimper came from the girl. Puzzled, he lifted silver eyes to gold, seeking her reaction. Silver darkened to charcoal when he saw the terror and revulsion swimming in those whiskey-hued eyes of hers.

"You—you're him, aren't you? The one my father—" Her voice quavered a moment, and then firmed again, as though she refused to show him a moment's weakness.

Trapped by her, dazzled so that he could not blink, or even look away from her, he dipped his reptilian head into a nod.

"He—the village needs him—I came instead."

Again, he nodded, the loathing that faced him paralyzing, keeping his eyes on her, no matter how desperately he wished to turn away from her and her revulsion. He would have preferred it by a million times if she'd merely screamed.

"You—you won't harm him—will you?" she asked hesitantly, her eyelashes sweeping down to guard her eyes, as though she feared that the question would give him ideas. It was enough to break the spell, and both relieved and aching, his eyes slid shut for a moment before he forced them back open.

"No, I won't harm your father. I've no use for him."

The girl seemed startled by his sudden speech, for her generous lips fell open for a moment, and her eyes widened.

"You've the run of this place, child, save the northernmost tower." His tower. "Your needs will be dealt with accordingly—you need only to concentrate on what you want. I would have your word that you will not leave the outermost walls, though," he continued, in his distant-thunder voice. She had no horse now, no reliable method of transportation—and the woods were deadly during the winter, when wolves and other predators roamed, and prey was scarce.

Belle spluttered a moment, terror forgotten, at the demand and at the diminutive he'd used. "I would have your word that you'll do nothing to harm the villagers, or me, before you begin demanding things of me!"

It amused him, in a faintly bitter way, that she thought he could leave the castle. At the same time, it ripped at his pride, what little there was left of it, that she thought, even unknowing who he was, that he'd attack the village that his family had once ruled, protected, and provided for.

"You have my word on the matter. I care little for the villagers, and I have even less interest in allowing harm come to you. But you may not leave the outermost walls until spring at the very earliest…not unless you tire of living." With that, he turned and padded away.

* * *

Belle stared after the dragon, frozen in place by the threat that had just been issued. Icy terror blanketed everything else for a minute, anger a slow burn beneath, until she forced it forward. Anger was better, more constructive, than fear. Far, far better to be furious than petrified, and she had so much she could be furious with. The treatment of her father, the threats against them both, and that nasty little prick her pride had received when that damned lizard had called her a child.

Unwilling to follow after her ungracious host, she allowed her anger to simmer, and went back to the books, finding solace among them. Taking a beautifully bound copy of _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_—a favorite of hers—she sat and allowed the story to take her away to England, to King Arthur's time. Maybe, when she had a chance, she'd search out a tale that covered Saint George's slaying of the dragon.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

_No act of kindness, however small, is ever wasted._

—Aesop, _The Lion and the Mouse_.

The dragon padded toward the library, intent on getting his book and retreating again. Surely, the girl would be gone from the library by now. It was after dark already—nearly nine in the evening. He knew she was still in the castle because he'd seen her little carpetbag in one of the many rooms of the castle, sitting forlornly by the bed. The location of her quarters had surprised him, left him mildly disconcerted. They weren't in the guest wing, to the southeast, but closer to his tower and to the library.

The library doors were still open, so it was easy enough to slip in without making a sound. He shook his head irritably at his own foolishness. Why should he have to sneak around his own home like a thief? With an irritable rumble, he padded over to where he'd left _The Faerie Queen_. He paused at the head of the aisle, framed by shelves on either side, and simply stared in exasperation. Down the row, beside the book he wanted, the girl lay sleeping, completely motionless save for her breathing.

The dragon's eyes narrowed on the sleeping form, irritation clouding his eyes to a light gold. There was no way he could move the girl to her room without waking her, no way he could take another dose of the silent brand of rejection she appeared to favor. With a disgruntled shake of his head, he turned again, and left the library, heading toward her newly cleaned and fresh-smelling room. _This is where she should be sleeping,_ a particularly nasty side of him muttered sullenly. _Not in _my_ library._

He pulled a blanket and pillow from the large four-poster, ignoring the petulant thought, and padded back to the library with them. He stalked to her side, not pleased with her or himself, and dragged the blanket over her prone form. Next, the pillow. With the delicacy of a surgeon, he slipped his paw beneath her head, lifting it off the cushion she'd made of her arm, and pushed the pillow beneath, holding his breath as he slid his talons away from her silky skin. The dragon stared at her for a moment, gazing bemusedly at the child that had invaded his sanctuary inside this granite prison. With another mystified shake of his great head, he picked up the book, and turned away to retreat back to his tower. Something told him that he would spend far more time than customary in that bleak cell than he had ever done before.


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter 5

"_If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow_."

—Chinese Proverb

She awoke with a start, head spinning and back aching, disoriented. She struggled upright, fighting her way out of a blanket that wasn't her own. Blinking, she looked around in confusion at the multitude of books that surrounded her, the events of the day before coming back in piecemeal chunks. Baffled, the girl looked down at the blanket still tangled around her, and the pillow that had been under her head. The book that had been open beside her was gone, in its place, a huge footprint in the dust. Her confusion fled quickly, to be replaced with anxiety.

He had been here, the dragon. He'd come back sometime after she'd dozed off. That thought was disturbing. He—it—had seen her asleep, had taken the liberty to touch her. Belle shuddered. The image of those two-inch daggers on his paws anywhere near her body was sickening. What was she going to do about this? Belle raised her knees, hugged them to her chest. It was frightening to imagine a predator as great as the dragon that close, and horrifying to hear a voice speaking a human language coming from a dragon's form. She was uninterested in any more surprises of that nature—his sudden, silent appearance and human voice was enough to have completely unnerved her.

He wouldn't catch her off guard again! She wouldn't let him surprise her again—which meant she was going to search his home, find out what she could before he sprang anything else on her. With luck, perhaps she could find something to bargain with for her freedom.

After a light breakfast, which appeared in the corner of the room the moment she thought of it, Belle set out to explore her captor's home.

It was a gloriously luxurious prison, despite all the dark grey stone that had been used. The rooms were large, beautifully furnished, and absolutely choked with dust. The colors hadn't faded any, even where the light had poured in. Even the dust, when she brushed at it, obediently came out of the rich fabrics as though she'd spent hours cleaning it.

Why had the dragon allowed his possessions to become so filthy? Especially when it was obvious that cleaning would be remarkably simple. Surely the dragon—since it was apparently civilized enough to require such furnishings in the first place —had enough power or influences to acquire a cleaning service of some sort?

Belle wandered through the great stone halls, perversely admiring the rooms of her new…home? Jail? How could one categorize such a place?

She found the room she was apparently meant to sleep in, where her bag was waiting patiently in the corner—it was strange, though, that her room was so much closer to the library…more so than any of the other guest rooms, it seemed. She took tea there, marveling at the magic that required no more than a wish, even as she distrusted it. The room itself was beautiful, and as far as she could tell, dust-free.

She finished eating, and resumed her exploring. The halls she wandered now seemed darker somehow, and heavier. A scent pervaded this part of the house, similar to the one she'd noticed in the library, the elusive whiff of smoke and roses growing stronger as she continued. Belle came to a set of winding stairs, rather narrow-looking and very dark. Curious as to what it lead to, she started to climb. It wasn't a long climb, but it was dark, oppressively so. She nearly walked into the door, it was so dimly lit, and felt for the handle. She found it eventually, a great, worked-iron thing that opened at her lightest touch. The big, hardwood door swung ponderously inward.

She stiffened as the room's chill extended out to her, grasping like the bony hands of a crone. This was almost certainly a cell, though why the door was unlocked escaped her. It wasn't, couldn't be, what she'd imagined it might be—the dragon's lair. There weren't any jewels or a king's ransom in gold…nor were there any bones, for which she was most grateful. There wasn't anything that anyone could truly call precious in the room, except perhaps the silver basin on a table in the corner, which had some rather cleverly worked vines and a rose decorating its sides.

The room, save the bed and the table the basin sat upon, was at glaring odds with the rest of the house. The furniture—broken, ripped, burned—had been pushed out of the way, to the sides of the rooms in useless heaps, as though the perpetrator had acted in a fit of anger or despair. There was a large four-poster bed in the other corner, its heavy drapes tightly drawn against the cold and the meager afternoon sunlight that crept in from the south-facing window. The room was utterly still, and like any other room in the house, choked with cobwebs and dust.

Belle entered, in the grip of a tenacious curiosity. Skirting a mass of twisted wood and fabric, she went to look more closely at the basin. It seemed, to her great consternation, completely ordinary from this angle as well, though there was _something_ about it that bothered her. She brushed her finger-tips over the worked metal, trying to explain to herself why it seemed so very important.

A slight rustling from the bed behind her made her jump, snatching her hand away from the basin. She stared at the bed, barely breathing, and like one entranced, walked towards it. Belle watched, her mind almost detached from her body as her hand reached out to grasp the wine-red velvet. A powerful compulsion griped her, made her tug the drape away to reveal what was behind it.

Curled on his side, like an overgrown cat, a man slept. He was long-limbed and thin—far too thin for his height, so that his clothes bagged a bit around his lean frame, showing that he'd never been particularly heavy to begin with. Hair as silver as the moon contrasted against a face that was far too young for such a color, the silky strands splayed long and thick against a royal blue pillow, the rich color making him look even more ill than he already appeared. He shifted again, curling tighter, as though from the cold, or like he was in pain. A low keening noise slipped from his throat, and he started thrashing in earnest, in the grips of a nightmare.

Startled by the sudden violence, Belle stared helplessly as the man's sinuous body twisted, tangled in the sheets of the bed. Without thinking, she reached out instinctively, to comfort her fellow captive. He jerked at the contact, his thin, sharply angled face tightening for a moment before his eyes fluttered open.

Belle gasped at the sudden whirl of magic, and stumbled back, away from the bed, away from the dragon that suddenly filled it in the place of the man. He blinked again, and turned, catching sight of her horrified expression. For several uncomprehending moments, they merely stared at one another, silver meeting gold.

Slowly, the dragon's eyes shifted color, going from pewter-silver to black-green, and then to a terrifying flame-orange, shot through with bright, hot blue streaking out from cat-slit pupils.

"_Get out,_" he hissed out, venom on his words as he sprang from the bed, and advanced.

"I—I'm—" Belle stepped back, terrified to the point of stuttering.

"_Get out, I said!_" he snarled, horror and alarm at being found asleep nearly choking him. Hadn't she already taken over his library? Must she conquer every part of his prison to be satisfied?

Without another word, the girl turned and fled, slamming the door behind her as a deterrent, lest he try to chase after her. The dragon stared after her, reeling from the shock and blinding loathing for his own abhorrent behavior. Had he truly lost so many of his human manners and become so unpolished that he inspired such terror in the girl-child that had simply entered his room, unknowing and innocent of any deviousness?

With a pained snarl, he spun and lashed out a paw, raking claws against cold, hard stone the way a man might punch a wall in the same situation. His talons had raked four gouges in the granite, far deeper and cleaner a cut than any man armed with mere tools could ever hope to achieve. He gazed at the marks he'd created with eyes gone black from despair.

_Good God, what am I? What kind of monster have I turned into?_ He wondered, considering that perhaps the girl had good reason to flee. The dragon continued to stare at the four tracks in the granite wall, a silent acknowledgement of his curse and the changes that had been wrought that so suddenly made themselves fiercely apparent, so that he could not even lie to himself anymore. What woman could ever find a man, especially a man worth accepting, in what he'd become, and give him what he needed to be freed?

With a snap, his head jerked up, his eyes going green-black again with horror and shock. The girl—Belle—she wouldn't have—

He bolted for the door, panic blanking all else from his mind. He fought with the handle, trying to work the mechanism to open it, and leapt down the stairs so fast he nearly tumbled down them. The dragon hurried toward the Great Hall, toward the main entrance, and skidded to a halt in front of the open doors, which stood open with an air of silent disappointment. Beyond them, the gates stood open as well, mocking him. His stomach lurched at the sight of them, and at the sight of the long dark shadows of twilight that stretched and outlined her small footprints in otherwise pristine snow. His heart squeezed painfully as the shoe he had been waiting for finally dropped.

And then he remembered. In the distance, he could hear the mournful voice of a hunting wolf, soon joined by others as its pack members joined in the song. His already abused heart froze, and his stomach pinched with fear.

The dragon charged across the courtyard, and leapt into the air, unfurling the gigantic wings on his back and pumping them once, propelling him higher into the chill winter air. He circled once, twice, to gain momentum, and shot toward the invisible magic barrier that trapped him in the castle.

The ripping pain nearly knocked him out of the air as he plunged through gooey magic, struggling as it tried to hold him in. With a final jerk, he found himself free—and falling through the air like a stone. The dragon swept his wings up and down, vision graying as he felt wind resistance on the shredded membranes stretching between the bones of his bat-like wings, and whistling against the ripped flesh of his sides. Forcing down nausea, the dragon directed his eyes down, hoping to catch a glimpse of his wayward girl-child. He had minutes, at best, hours.


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter 6

"_That day, she was amazed to discover that when he was saying "As you wish", what he meant was, "I love you_."

Narrator, _Princess Bride_

Belle backed herself against a tree, knowing that if they got behind her she'd be finished, a thick tree-limb clutched in almost numb hands. A small pack of wolves stalked closer, so scrawny she could see prominent ribs beneath ratty coats. One sprang closer, only to feel the broadside of the limb. Another lunged, and grabbed hold of her sodden dress-hem and yanked, making her stumble forward, a scream choking in her throat.

A roar rang out, and a silver and red bullet dropped through the leafless tree branches above, massive wings unfurling at the last minute to catch him. Before the dragon even touched the ground, he'd caught one of the wolves in his claws and tossed it away from her, before landing in front of her with a thud. Snarling, he hastily pushed her behind him with a bleeding wing, putting himself between her and the wolves. The wolves were snarling as well, scenting his blood, and hungry enough to disregard that their intended prey had just become far too large for them to handle. They circled for another few moments, and jumped, as a collective unit this time.

The fight swiftly became a bloodbath, as the dragon flung the wolves off of him repeatedly, killing them only when they got too close to the woman he guarded. Within moments, the pack was either dead or fleeing, finally convinced that a dragon was too much trouble.

Once they were a fair distance away, the dragon turned to Belle, his breath pluming out in front of him, blood staining his silvery hide, and dripping onto the snow. One of the wolves' claws had managed to rake over his eye, scoring three bloody lines across his face. There were other scratches and bites on him, but they were nothing compared to the deep, horrible gashes that stretched along his body and shredded his wings to tatters. His claws were painted red with blood not his own, and the bodies of the wolves was a harsh reminder to Belle that this was no tame animal in front of her, but a dragon, a killer.

"Are you alright?" his harsh growl was a welcome sound after the vicious, killing snarls of minutes ago. Belle nodded hurriedly, amber eyes wide and locked on his dark grey-red gaze.

"Fool. I told you you'd die if you tried to leave," he spat, and then jerked his head in the direction of the sinking sun. "Come on, we need to get back before we both freeze to death."

"But—but, you're—" She gestured to his wounds, feeling helpless again, and hating it.

"We're going back _now_. I'll deal with them later." He shoved her forward with a wing, before folding them onto his back again, and taking a few unsteady steps after her, limbs shaking with exhaustion. He knew—from his last, and only escape attempt—the longer he stayed outside the castle, the weaker he became.

They stumbled back to the castle together; cold, wet, and aching as cold seeped to their very bones. It was long after dark by the time they made it back, and they only barely made it into the Great Hall before collapsing. The blood on the dragon's sides had frozen—the only reason he hadn't bled to death long before—and Belle was courting frostbite.

"In front of the fireplace," he rumbled, taking her weight without complaint as she leaned against him, even though she pressed against the worst of his injuries. By now he was too cold to feel the pain, which worried him. If he was this bad off, even after the magical pressure had been taken off, how must she—smaller and weaker than he—be faring?

Belle barely noticed when a nest of blankets and cushions appeared on the floor, or when the dragon sank gratefully onto them, taking her with him as he collapsed, so that she half-lay against his side.

"Belle, you must get out of those clothes—you are soaked through," he rumbled, nudging her. She stirred only slightly, flinching from him. Swiftly hardening his heart, he snarled, shoving more insistently now. This time she snapped out of her daze, and scrambled back, fear in her eyes mixing with uncertainty as she stared at him.

"Get out of those clothes, before you freeze," he grumbled, turning from her to light the fire laid in the grate before them. He could feel Belle's gaze as he sent his odd, purple-colored flame streaming into the grate, and told himself sternly that he didn't care that she was terrified of him.

Instead, he twisted his neck stiffly, like a cat, trying to reach the worst of the cuts on his back. The dragon could hear the splat of wet clothes somewhere behind him, and the rasp of newly summoned dry ones over cold-numbed flesh. She padded back over to huddle nervously by the fire, its flickering purple light softening some of the room's harsh edges, and bringing some color back to her ashen face. She wore a magnificent nightgown, he noticed, perversely torturing himself with snatched glances of the girl inside the long, opaque negligee. She was chaffing at fingers and toes, working to get blood flowing again, snatching glances of her own.

Furious to have nearly been caught looking, he ignored her, twisting to clean wounds that she'd indirectly caused, even when she whimpered from the same pins-and-needles sensation that he was feeling in his wings. When the noises stopped, he hoped it was because she'd fallen asleep. If not, he'd be obligated to encourage a conversation, and he wasn't sure he was up to the accusations that he imagined would come.

So it came as a shock to him when something touched his side, startling a noise somewhere between a roar and a whimper of pain from him.

"_What the_—" He stopped the question uncompleted when he saw the cloth in her hands, and the gently steaming basin of water at her side. In the water there were several different herbs floating, steeping into the liquid. Belle was dabbing at the cuts, her head bent over the task so that her hair hung like a fiery shied between them. She finally risked a glance up a moment later, and hurriedly looked away again when she saw him staring. It was another several moments until she spoke.

"I—um—I'm sorry you were hurt. It—it was stupid to run—"

"No, it wasn't stupid." He was staring into the fire when she looked up in shock, his reptilian face unreadable. "It was intelligent enough, just badly timed. If you'd run during the summer, you would have been fine."

Her eyes narrowed on the dragon, fear draining away. Belle couldn't help remembering that he'd had a human form not so long ago. And he'd been injured in her defense in the woods. And now, even though she was right there with him, he looked…lonely.

"Why'd you come after me?"

"There are wolves in the forest, and other predators like to use it as a haunt. Thieves, bandits, murderers," he added, in case she hadn't understood the first time. He turned, eyed her pointedly. "Rapists."

"So? Why would you care enough to come after me?" She challenged, because his words had sent a chill through her.

"Why are you trying to help me?" He responded with a question of his own, nodding toward the cloth she held. The dragon didn't understand her; didn't understand this strange mixture of audacity and fear. She was confusing, a mass of contradictions ready to put forth fire or flee at any given moment. An enigma of the highest order, he decided, watching her warily.

"You got hurt because of me," she retorted, dabbing again, harder than was strictly necessary. He snarled, drawing away, his eyes blazing red-gold for a moment, before they faded back to gold-grey.

"That _hurt_," he growled reproachfully, before adding: "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Belle snorted, as though to say that the evidence of that was right in front of her, and started on yet another cut. The dragon growled low in his throat, and struggled to gain his feet. She simply shoved hard against his scaled flank, over-balancing him and sending his falling back into the pillows with a muffled thump. His eyes gilded again, a gold sheen over silver, and jerked his head up so he glared down on her with all of the intensity of an irritated dragon.

She ignored the look, as she would any when she knew she was in the right, and continued to clean off the blood that had caked itself to his scales. The dragon allowed this for a moment, and then decided he'd had enough.

Belle fell backwards with an 'oomph' of surprise, and found she was pinned flat to the blankets and pillows by the dragon's tail. The basin of water and herbs had disappeared, and he settled himself comfortably, still pinning her easily, with his hindquarters curled beside him, and his front paws crossed before him, wings folded neatly against his back, like some huge cat that'd caught the wayward kitten he was tired of chasing. The dragon's arch look was far more convincing from this angle, his dark silvery eyes narrowed, and holding a tint of blue, instead of gold, with amusement. The scratches, though they probably hurt, gave him a rakish look, and there was a kind of innate nobility that seemed to be ingrained in the sharp bones of his lizard-like face. With an inner jolt, Belle realized that she was beginning to get used to him. The dragon had far more human to him than she'd originally thought. More than some of the people she'd met.

"Stop fussing," he commanded, the amusement written in his eyes obvious in his voice as well. "They will heal on their own, with time. Now sleep."

"But—" she struggled to sit up, and was thwarted again by his tail. He eased completely onto his side, looking even more like a dozing cat, and watched her with half-lidded eyes.

"Sleep, Belle. If you like, I'll go," he added, realizing that it was very likely she wanted him far away from her while she slept. It had, he realized, been merely a day, for all it was an eventful one. She had no trust for him, no assurances save from his own mouth. Odd, he mused with a sad sort of humor, that it had felt so much longer. Enough to give a terrible kind of hope, but not enough, not nearly enough to heal the years of loneliness.

The good humor that had held him for a few moments fled, he released her, and shifted to stand, moving gingerly to avoid pulling his wounds.

"No, wait—please, it's alright. There's already a fire—and—and it'll be warmer if we stay together, right?" she queried anxiously, eyes imploring him.

The dragon paused, and eyed her thoughtfully. "I suppose," he rumbled doubtfully.

"Stay? Please?"

He blinked. "You are sure?"

Belle nodded quickly—she didn't want to be alone tonight to revisit those horrible hours in the forest before he'd come in her dreams, and for a moment, just for a moment, he'd been in a good mood. Now something had put the sorrow back in his eyes, and she was too sensitive a person not to have noticed, and ache for her savior's pain.

Eyes locked on her face, searching for any doubt, he eased back into a comfortable position. "As you wish."


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter 7

"_Love the heart that hurts you, but never hurt the heart that loves you."_

—Vipin Sharma

Belle stirred quietly, blinking in the low light of the Great Hall. The fire before her in the giant fireplace had burnt low, but still emitted heat and small purple-colored flames to lick at what remained of its fuel. She turned over to face the dragon—a dragon no more. As she'd expected, the man had once again taken his place, stretched out on his side beside her. He slept quietly, chest rising and falling with his steady breathing. The injuries he'd gained coming to her rescue stood out on his skin with a horrific sort of juxtaposition, dark red against the paleness of his face and what she could see of his chest beneath his loose shirt.

She nearly reached out to him, almost brushed the thick silver hair back from his angular face, wanted to smooth the lines etched there even in sleep away. Belle refrained, fearing, perhaps unnecessarily, a reaction like the one earlier. But she did take a moment to study his features more closely. A straight, aristocratic nose sat easily in his narrow face, winged eyebrows arching over his deep-set eyes, the lashes currently fanning over the high cheekbones. There were small wrinkles around his eyes, and lines etched at the corners of his mouth, adding more character to his planed face. Dark, mauve bruises stood out beneath his eyes, speaking of little easy sleep, and the three scratches slashed across the left side of his face, sparing his eye, and sliced into the flesh of his cheek.

Belle froze as he shifted slightly, watched as his eyebrows drew together when he found it hurt to move, and then settled again with a soft sigh. She relaxed again when the man showed no signs of waking.

_Why?_ She wondered. _He's human, so why does he take that form?_ She had heard of sorcerers who could do great and terrible things with their magic, but she simply couldn't equate what she'd observed of the dragon-man to that kind of arrogance. Besides, why would anyone wish to change themselves into a dragon? It was frightening, certainly, but…could he really have taken that form for no better purpose than to appear frightening?

_He could_, she realized, appalled. Hadn't he sent her father back nearly in tears, with threats of dire consequences if Rhys didn't return within three days to pay for taking shelter when it was needed? But…if he was truly that self-centered, why would he have gone to the trouble of saving her, of being injured for her sake?

He shifted again, another grimace of pain flitting across his pale face. Belle jerked her attention back to him as he shuddered once, a long shiver that wracked his entire body. His face tightened with discomfort and misery, and he tried to curl in on himself, into the dubious comfort of a ball. The dragon-man gasped as the movements tugged and reopened some of his wounds, flinching from the pain.

He was having another nightmare.

She did reach out this time, torn between hoping he would wake, and that he wouldn't. The least she could do was to ease his pain a bit, as Grand-mère had shone her. He didn't wake, but a pale hand shot up to grasp hers when she touched his shoulder, clinging like a small child, startling her away from her plan to ease the ache of his wounds. Gradually, his breathing evened again, and his muscles unlocked. The man's hand loosened slightly on hers, but he didn't yet release her. When she attempted to draw away his face tightened again, though he made no move to stop her, which in itself had her halting her retreat. Instinct and kindness told her to allow the contact, even while her pragmatic side shouted that he was at the very least a sorcerer, and not to be trusted. She ignored the pragmatism, and lay back down as a yawn ripped through her. Belle's body was demanding more sleep, so she pushed all thought away, and gave into slumber.

The first thing he became aware of at dawn, when he woke, was warmth and contact, concentrated against his front. The second thing he noticed was the scent of lavender and rosemary—at least, he was nearly sure it was rosemary. It was a comforting smell, invoking memories of the long-ago nurses and caretakers from his childhood. The dragon's eyes opened resignedly, unwilling to give up the hazy warmth of an uninterrupted, dreamless sleep. It had been a very long time since he'd been able to sleep through the night undisturbed, without waking once or twice. He had a vague impression of a soft voice, and a gentle hand offering comfort, but he couldn't be sure that he hadn't simply dreamt it.

With a shake of his great head, he dismissed it, and looked down at the girl sleeping beside him. Belle lay curled against his chest, sound asleep, as though she hadn't a care in the world, with her head pillowed by his front leg. The dragon's eyes widened marginally when he saw that one of her tiny hands was trapped in a cage made by his paw, the tender flesh a bare hairs-width from his dagger-like claws. Carefully, not daring to breathe, he pulled the talons away from fragile skin, blanching at the thought of what might have happened if he'd but twitched in his sleep.

Belle stirred as he drew back, following his movement to remain pressed against the warmth of his body. The dragon blinked, taken aback by the unconscious trust in the girl's movement. A second later, he was floored by an even larger conclusion.

He could lose his heart to this girl, this woman, who he'd ripped from her home. There would be no getting it back, he realized, no second chances for him. When she left—and he knew she would, for there was no way she could ever be content to simply stay—his solitude would quickly become unbearable.

The dragon lay still for a very long time, with Belle asleep beside him, gazing into the fire he'd relit, lost in thought.


	9. Chapter Eight

Chapter 8

"_Indifference and neglect often do more damage than outright dislike."_ —JK Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_

Belle woke to silence. Perhaps it was the silence itself that had woken her—the steady breathing that had soothed her through the night had put her to sleep better than any lullaby, and the lack of it now had finished the waking that the dragon's leaving had started. The fire in the grate had gone out, but she was warm from the blankets that surrounded her, pulled up to her chin. The wind still howled outside with demonic glee at the prospect of catching another unsuspecting traveler. She shuddered at the sound, aware that but for her host, she'd have died in the fiendish wind. The thought of dressing and breaking her fast was enough, though, to drive her out of the warm nest on the floor of the Great Hall.

She jumped when the magic that flooded this place answered her vague summons extravagantly, providing clothes, food, and even a bath. A full-length gown of emerald green silk, embedded with various jewels appeared, hanging on a dress stand. Emerald and diamond jewelry to match it sat on a small table that also bore a steaming pot of tea (which had a green pattern on its white porcelain) and several covered platters (the plates had the same pattern as the tea pot). A matching chair popped into existence alongside it, in plush emerald velvet. And to make the ensemble complete, a gigantic (green) claw-footed tub materialized, with steaming water inside, scented with rosemary and lavender oils so that the fresh smell permeated the air, (just as her baths at home, years before her family had been forced from the city).

Belle blinked at all the green, disbelieving both magic and the matching.

After her bath and breakfast, she spent several minutes of arguing to the air that there was _no need_ to be wearing such a dress so early in the morning, not when the only other inhabitant of the castle was a dragon who probably wouldn't care anyway. She spent a while pleading with the magic for a dress that was less…less _everything_. Grudgingly, she received one, in dark forest-green linen, with paler green embroidery sketching over it in intricate whirls and swoops. It was obvious by the way that the jewelry seemed to creep closer that she was to wear it, and that she wouldn't be able to argue her way out of it, regardless of the fact that it was a veritable fortune in emeralds.

Belle turned, thinking that she should do something with the multitude of pillows and blankets that had made their bed the night before, but she saw nothing. All of the cushions and covers were gone, though they'd been there mere seconds before. She blanched at the power of the magic that swirled around her, seeming so less friendly than the spell she'd argued with for upwards of ten minutes. The girl turned, resolved not to think of it again, and left the Great Hall with a flourish of her long skirt. Immediately, small doubts stuck again—how would she get back to her own room, or the library? Even the dragon, with his dubious motives and temper, would be a welcome sight at the moment. Taking a deep breath to quell the little insecurities, she turned to the left of the hall, and began walking.

Fifteen minutes later, though, she was still walking, and beginning to feel very lost within the giant stone prison. She came to another fork in the hall, and quickly turned right, putting faith in blind luck.

Belle came to a door at the end of this passage, and a thoughtful frown creased her brow for a moment as she considered it. She didn't recognize it from the day before, so she doubted it would get her to the library, her current goal. With a shrug, she decided against turning back, and turned the handle.

Inside there was a hall similar to the one she and the dragon had slept in the night before, but smaller and without the fireplaces or the long table. Instead, frames hung on the walls, their occupants lit by huge white candles in brass brackets. A family stared down at her, haughty and aristocratic. The women were beautiful and grand-looking, young and old. The men shared the dragon-man's high cheek-boned angularity. All of them had the same eyes, though. Not color or shape, she mused, but the expression in each of their eyes was cold. Even the dragon-man, who painting she found down at the end of the hall, had a cold, guarded light in his grey eyes. His hair in the painting was dark, and his clothes had been in fashion nearly a hundred years ago, Belle noted with some interest. Below the painting, as with all of the paintings, a discreet gold plaque read his name: Julian DesRosiers. Strange, the girl thought, why hadn't he introduced himself?

Still thinking about it, she moved in front of the last painting in the hall, and looked up. It was a woman, far different in coloring and bearing than all of the other women in the hall. Pale, white-blond hair was left free to hang around her like a cloak. Laughing green eyes sparkled, even on canvas. She wore a wispy dress of virginal white, simple earrings and a girdle of worked gold. A delicately worked pendant on a slim gold chain rested on her chest—a tree bearing the sign of a pentagram and one of the goddess. The woman in the painting was a witch. The plaque beneath only confirmed her suspicion as to her identity…the woman in the painting was her Grand-mère.

Belle hadn't known her Grand-mère well—the lady had died when she was eight years old, and visits with her had been brief and relatively infrequent. She remembered her as a grandly beautiful woman who often took a moment to tell her she was special, that she always had been, and had gifts others did not. Belle had never known how her Grand-mère had understood that she was different until after she had died. Then Belle had started to hear rumors about her; that she'd been a powerful enchantress in her youth, and that when she'd married, she'd given magic up forever.

Why would the dragon have a painting of Grand-mere in her youth?

With plenty to think about now, she walked out, closing the door behind her and moved back down the hall to the intersection where she'd gone wrong. The dragon stood there, waiting patiently, watching her like a large silver shadow. Waiting for what, she wondered. She had his word that she was safe—and there was something about him that told her she could trust his word, backed up by his daring (or if not daring, then certainly helpful) rescue the evening before. With the exception of a very small, rather instinctive distrust of prey for predator that continued to cling, her fears of him were banished. Beside, what could he do to her without breaking his oath not to harm her? Usher her to the dungeons? Toss her back out into the snow? The girl chuckled quietly to herself, amused with her own foolishness. He was too honorable, and, by all observations, too kind even to contemplate such things. With a small smile of greeting, she moved forward to meet the dragon, her companion for however long she was to remain here.

He watched her, warily, wondering. Wondering what she might be thinking, with that smile playing on her lips. Was she remembering a beau from her village? Or was she thinking of another way to leave? He doubted she realized he wouldn't try to keep her trapped there with him, in the castle.

Did she realize that her mere presence in the castle was soothing away years of his loneliness and despair?

She stopped beside him; that slight smile still flitting around her lips.

"Hello."

The dragon nodded in return, still eyeing her.

"I hope you've come to rescue me—I got quite lost this morning," her tone was light, as though she planned to ignore her companion's taciturnity.

He blinked, startled—he hadn't even considered that she might get lost. He'd gone looking for her simply because his need from company, human company, had blocked out everything else.

"Where would you like to go, then?" He rumbled, nearly purring when she brushed against him. The wonder of contact with another was a heady sensation.

"I don't know—I went exploring yesterday, but I can't remember what I saw—all the rooms seem to have blended together in my mind. It's a very large house, you know."

It was said with a smile, no detectable bitterness showing, but still the dragon watched, the knot in his belly twisting just a little tighter with nervousness.

There was a moment of silence as they both considered.

"Would you like—?"

"I don't suppose—"

They both broke off, the dragon embarrassed, the girl intrigued.

"Please, what were you going to say?" She asked when he showed no sign of continuing.

"There is an observatory in the west wing. There are trees there—tropical ones, which have run wild since…for a very long time," he corrected himself. He wasn't allowed to speak of the curse to anyone—a clause that had, until recently, seemed unnecessary. Now, he cursed it with renewed vigor. How could she understand, much less give, what she had no knowledge he might need?

"It's nicer at night, though," he added, not sure if he wanted to put off the tour or simply get it over with.

"Perhaps we should wait until tonight, then, to visit it?" She suggested gently, as though to an elderly relative who wasn't known for lucidity.

He nodded. The feeling that swept through him—as though she'd just slapped him—made his gut twist at his own fragility. What kind of man was so delicate that he couldn't take the least bit of criticism? Inwardly, he clamped down on the hurt, the self-directed anger. He refused to spend the rest of his life—even if it would be as a dragon—feeling that way, fragile and hurt at nothing. That anger and the disappointment that twined along it made his words slightly stiff.

"Of course. Fortunately for us, dark comes early this time of year. And you have not yet had your mid-day meal. I shall take you back to the library—there is a fire lit there."

Belle's eyebrows rose at the sudden coolness of the dragon's words, startled by it. He turned away, ending the conversation, and padded toward the library, leaving her to scramble behind him.

Had she…had she offended him somehow? His eyes had gone dark silver, his voice stiff, and his head had risen several inches. But what? What could he have taken offense to? He had said that the observatory was nicer at night, so why would they go during the day? Baffled, she followed after him, nearly at a jog to keep up with his longer stride, hoping that she hadn't unknowingly injured the tentative friendship that had been formed the night before. If she was to spend any amount of time here, it was imperative that they get along. There was nothing more awkward than living with someone one disliked, especially when one no longer feared the other.

The dragon paused at the library door, waiting for the girl to catch up to him and disappear into the book-filled haven. He could almost resent her, merely for coming and taking it over…but how could he? She had been torn from her home, thrust into a dingy castle miles from her village, with naught for company but an irritable dragon—her kidnapper. He knew that he should simply send her home, the sooner the better.

Could he, though? Could he send her away, knowing that she was his last chance, his only chance at regaining humanity? The dragon's stomach clenched unpleasantly again. By his standards, and sense of honor, he didn't have a choice.

"Belle—"

She stopped, looked over from where she stood, hand on the door handle, seconds away from vanishing inside. Her head cocked slightly to the side inquiringly, sending her wave of hair rippling in the light that streamed in the stained glass windows.

Oh, God, he couldn't do it. The knot his heart made in his throat wouldn't let him spit out the damning words that would set her free.

"Ah…never mind. I will see you later."

Hating his cowardice, the dragon fled into the shadows. He glanced back, but she'd gone inside, leaving him alone in the dusty hall, the door of the library slamming closed behind him like a blow. Heart heavy, the dragon continued on his way, winding through the passages that led to his chamber.


	10. Chapter Nine

Chapter 9

"_Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down."_ —Anonymous

It was late evening when the dragon finally returned for her, to lead her to the observatory. Their conversation started awkwardly; as he sought some topic she might be interested in. It continued haltingly, with long, hesitant pauses liberally interspersed, until Belle brought up the topic of books. He took to it gratefully, from there, the conversation ranged from art to music to architecture, and even cooking was touched upon. They both found each other surprisingly knowledgeable—Belle would never have guessed that a dragon would be so interested in human affairs (it had surprised her that he was literate) and he was still stunned she had an open enough mind to be here, with him, much less discussing the intricacies of Dante and Shakespeare. It was very late when they finally parted, reluctantly, each to their own bed.

It quickly became a routine. Belle would wake and break her fast, then bathe and dress in her room. The two of them did as they wished during the morning, whether it be wandering the castle, heading to the library for a book, or a walk in the gardens. The morning was for solitude, for consideration and meditation. It wasn't until Belle headed to the library to partake in lunch that the dragon would appear, and conversation would strike up. The afternoon and evening were for company, to laugh, to discuss. The dragon had been gracious, offering her anything in his or the castle's power to provide. Belle had asked for answers, to as many questions as she could think of. He had, for example, told her why there was a painting of her Grand-mère hanging in her gallery, confirmed that the lady had indeed been a great sorceress in her youth. He'd told her, in the guise of a story, of a noble boy and the powerful young woman Shaiya had been. The two had been betrothed, before a blood feud had sprung up between the two families, and broken them apart. He wouldn't—or possibly couldn't—say whatever had happened to the boy that had turned him into a dragon.

Slowly, inch by inch, the dragon and the girl forged the ties of friendship, tempered stronger by the alternative of solitude. Bouts of homesickness still plagued Belle, though, sudden and stunning in power, so that she was nearly in tears when one slashed through her. She could feel the dragon's concerned gaze watching her whenever she sat down to lunch pale and quiet from the emotional upheaval.

While Belle struggled with her demons, the dragon had his own demons to deal with. He was haunted by the knowledge that his time was fast running out. Already his four months had whittled down to two weeks. The vines were gone from the basin, and the last rose was turning to rose petals—real ones—and wilting off of the silver to litter the floor of his room. They were spread like rubies on the ground, a warning he had to ignore. What else could he do? Love couldn't be forced, only given—and even if he could force it, it wouldn't free him anyway. The dragon dreaded those last hours, and the ultimate transformation, but he dreaded her equally imminent departure infinitely more. Belle held his heart now; unaware that he had fallen scales over claws in love with her. He still didn't know how she saw him—simply an articulate animal with some education? A friend, perhaps, in an otherwise lonely existence? He did not know. He could only hope that she would be willing to stay until he was beyond redemption and needed to harbor the painful hope no longer. Then, when she left—or ran screaming—she'd take his traitorous heart with her. He knew he'd be desolate without her, but by then it wouldn't matter. Nothing would.


	11. Chapter Ten

Chapter 10

"_Ever had a relationship end in such a way that you saw it coming, but it was as if an avalanche had hit you, or a firestorm had swept over you, leaving your charred body waiting for the next breeze to blow it into a little drift of ashes?"_ —Anonymous

Rain fell in steady silver sheets outside the windows of the library, drenching the thirsty spring landscape. Inside, dry and warm before a crackling fire, the dragon and the girl chuckled over _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, a mutual favorite of theirs.

She picked at her tea in between chuckles; he sat tall, like a cat, with his long tail tucked neatly around his paws beside her, humor turning his eyes to silver-blue.

"And you, Belle, have you ever been enamored of an ass? It seems to be a common enough affliction among women-folk. Why do members of your gender choose to throw themselves at the dregs of mine? From what I know and you've told me, Titania is not alone in her suffering," it was a typical comment of his, a subtle poke at society's center, without the heat that would make such a statement offensive. It was a gift, she thought, that he could see so cleanly into matters of human society, without bias one way or another. The dragon didn't seem to hate, at all. He simply made observations.

"No, I've never been enamored with an ass. I prefer to avoid that sort of masochism. One was enamored with me, though." Her brows knit in a small frown. "Guy Poulinrey. He lives in the village—the eldest son of the squire who was appointed to take care of the village for the marquis, some hundred years ago."

Sorry to see a frown appear from what was meant as a jest, he asked quietly, "He upsets you?"

She shrugged restlessly; irritated that she'd brought the mood down. "No, not really. He is a spoiled brat, for the most part, but the village holds him in high regard. Arrogant. You known the type, I'm sure. He doesn't really care about anyone save himself and appearances." She brushed it off, but the frown remained.

Knowing the type well, for Belle had described himself from years before to a "T", and unwilling to allow their conversation to end on such a note, the dragon stood.

"'Sound, music! Come, my queen, take hands with me,'" he quoted, a perfect Oberon, and coaxed her from the chair and into a mad waltz, rearing back onto his hind legs and using his tail to balance. Surprised in laughter by his sudden, almost desperate, madcap cheer, and knowing if she didn't humor him now he'd worry; she slipped a hand into his carefully positioned paw, and rested the other on his shoulder, trusting as a child when his other claw-tipped paw settled gently at her hip.

For a moment, the world stood still for the two, dragon and girl, as they danced. Laughing, they whirled twice more, and the dance ended with them panting for breath, still chuckling.

"You, sir, are an excellent dancer," Belle gasped, leaning lightly against him to catch her breath.

The rumble that served as his laugh sounded, rolling over her like a warm wave. "Rusty, certainly, but it is kind of you to say so. You are the better dancer, Belle, if only because you have danced more recently than I."

"You are flattering me. I haven't danced in years." Embarrassment made her cheeks flame.

The dragon's eyes narrowed on her, laughter whisking away the sadness that still occasionally haunted his eyes as though it had never been.

"You want flattery? More Shakespeare for you, then, since my poetry is as rusty as my dancing. 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? / Thou art more lovely…Belle? Belle, what's the matter?"

Her smile had fallen, her eyes gone tormented, as wave after wave of intense homesickness swept over her.

"Belle, please, what's wrong?" he asked again, eyes locked on her face. He was terrified that she might faint; she had gone so very pale.

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, dragging herself back together. "My father used to say the same to my mother, when she was still alive. I—it'll pass in a moment," she was shaking, still pale as ash, her hand pressed against her heart, as though to ease the pain there.

"You miss you family." It wasn't a question, but a statement. He had known for months that she missed her family, had chosen to turn away from it. If mere words could have this painful an effect on her, though, nothing he did could hold her here. She nodded, and he knew then that she was lost to him. It would, he mused numbly, be cruel to try to keep her. Cruel to keep her from the family that she loved, crueler still to take her freedom from her. And, he knew, he was enough of a bastard to want to keep her here.

"Belle, come with me. There is a way you can see them." He turned, and led her out of the library, knowing it wouldn't be enough only to see, that she would go now to her family.

_Forever_.

Ignoring his heart's painful flutter, he headed toward the stairs of his tower, more like Orpheus than Oberon now, knowing that she followed him. Belle hesitated briefly at the foot of the stairs. Neither of them ever entered the other's private chamber, not after the incident so many months ago.

"Oh, but—this is your—"

"It is of no matter, Belle. Come, I can show you your family," the dragon promised, his voice a quiet rumble, to mask the pain that would crack it like glass.

The first thing she noted was that there were rose petals strewn about the room. Other than that, there had been no change since she'd last been in his room. Puzzled as to why he would throw rose petals on the floor, she began to ask, but he herded her over to the basin she'd admired so long ago. The vines that had been on it were gone, in their place, a wilting rose and its petals were nearly gone as well.

"Look into the water, Belle. Ask to see whatever you like—it will show you anything," he murmured, turning away to give her privacy. Though he couldn't blame her for wanting her freedom, he did not want to see who she would rather be with.

But the dragon heard her following his instructions, heard her ask to see her father. Not the selfish fool he had met, but the kind, good-natured man who loved his daughter that she'd described. He clenched his eyes shut as his stomach knotted.

True to his promise, the water clouded. When it cleared, she could see the merchant, still abed at this hour, two of Belle's sisters fussing over him. They looked weary and deeply afraid for their father, who shivered and sweated by turns, wracked with some kind of illness.

Belle's gasp of horror struck at the dragon's heart, her dismayed cry of '_Papa!_' biting even deeper. He did not understand the bond between them; his own parents had been cold people, distant and unapproachable who had loved tradition and appearances more than their son. Even so, he thought, he could give her what she needed. Choking slightly on the words, he spat them out;

"Belle, you must go to him. Your father…your father needs you there." He took a breath, nearly wincing as words like ice shards shredded in his throat. "I free you from any obligation to me."

_No, no, no! This wasn't how it was supposed to end_, that part of him that had demanded he let her stay shouted, fighting against the iron control he held it back with. _Not like this! Not now, not when we're so close!_

She turned, unaware of his inner war, with tears shinning like diamonds in her whiskey-colored eyes. "Oh, my friend, thank you so much! I will return, though, do not worry," she promised, as she flung her arms around his serpentine neck in a hug of gratitude.

Unseen, his eyelids closed over black cats-eyes, the irises tinged with the same purple color as his flame. A claw-tipped paw rose to rest carefully against her back to return the embrace.

"No, Belle, you won't. The castle will hide itself from you—it does not allow visitors to return here. You will not be able to find it again. Here," she released him, so that he could pad over to the bed, to take the book that rested on the red velvet coverlet, and hand in to her. It was beautifully bound, as all of the dragon's books were. Embossed in silver on the black leather was the title: _Le Chien de Petit-dent_—The Small-Tooth Dog. It was an old fairy tale, about a man cursed to be a dog, until a princess had freed him. Startled, Belle looked up at the dragon.

"So you remember, if you'd like to," he murmured, a roll of thunder wrapped in velvet. It was a clue, one he couldn't help but give her, even though he knew it was too late now. He had found it, finally, the night before, and had planned on giving it to her today. But now… The persistent, optimistic part of him had finally quieted, likely numbed from the same sense of cold that was holding the dragon together. It was as though a wall of ice held his mind separate from the pain that was beginning to build up.

"I could never forget you—_never_! And I will come back, I promise!" The girl swore, clutching the book to her heart.

He nodded; trying to let that promise, even though he knew it was false, soothe his shattered soul. "Nevertheless. Now go, Belle. It will take you a while to get through the forest, and you must get home before dark."

She nodded in return; looking more excited than he'd ever seen her, and threw him one last smile of gratitude. "You have my thanks, _mon ami!_"

The wall of ice broke, like a dam overflowed by a river.

Miserable beyond words, he could only nod again, and watch her disappear from his tower. Within moments, she was out the great doors and through the gate, with nary but a single glance back. The dragon watched until she was long out of sight.

"'Some, Cupid kills with arrows'," he murmured to himself, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "'Some, with traps.'"

The pain was rolling through him in great, thorough waves. It was filling him with a vicious cold so unlike the numbing one from before that he could feel nothing but the pain.

"For me, he simply tears out my beating heart, and hands it to her in a basket. And she calls me friend."

He didn't realize that his knees were weak until they gave out beneath him. The dragon didn't bother to try and get back up, but curled into a tight ball there upon the stone floor of his dreary chamber. He had thought, once, that his transformation had been the single most painful moment of his life—more painful than his parent's cold indifference, more painful than the deaths of his family members, more painful than the desertion of his friends during those long, bloody days of the feud. He'd been wrong, so very, very wrong. This pain soared high above the other, taking all of the little pains and tripling them so they crashed back down on him now. Now, all he could think was that it hadn't been enough. Once again, his love hadn't been enough.

"What use did cursing me have, Shayia?" He asked the dead enchantress, a girl he'd once been friends with, and then betrothed to, and then enemies with. "What purpose, if it was only to end like this? When simply leaving me in human form, to blunder through like a fool, would have achieved the same thing?"

A low keening sound slipped from his throat, and unexpected, hated tears burned down his angular face. He hadn't cried since long before his transformation—not since he had realized the true depth of his parents' indifference, realized the futility of his attempts at earning their affection or even attention. With a growl, he curled tighter; trying to will the pain to go; hating the weakness. But it was like trying to hurry the sun on its course to the west.

_"And thus you shall remain until there comes the one that will give you what you lack, despite your form. You shall have one hundred years in which to undo this curse, else you shall be trapped thus forever."_

Another petal fell, unacknowledged, as he wept.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Chapter 11

_Can miles truly separate us from friends?_

_If we want to be with someone we love, aren't we already there?_

—Richard Bach

Many times, Belle considered turning around and going back to the dragon. The sadness in his eyes haunted her, it had been so close to despair, and the pain that coupled with the grief in them had shredded her insides. But her father needed her; and besides, she would go back—the dragon was her dearest friend. So she kept on, pushing herself hard to be home before nightfall, the memory of the last time she'd been in the forest after nightfall a looming specter.

As the dim, grey light waned and the rain fell harder, the unseen sun slipping below the horizon, she burst wetly through the front door of the little cottage she and her father shared. Her sisters startled at the sudden appearance of this grandly dressed, sopping wet stranger.

"_Belle!_" Her three sisters crowded around her, asking questions, demanding answers, begging for her story. She hushed them, soothing and assuring, and asked them to wait until she'd seen their father. He struggled to sit up to greet her, tears of relief in his eyes.

"Belle, my Belle, you've come back! My clever girl, you escaped that monster—" he was broken off by a fit of coughing, so intense his frame shook with it.

With worry edging her features, she lifted a cup of tea to his lips. "No, Papa, it wasn't like that at all. He let me go—really, he's a good person."

He patted her hand, placating. "Belle, my love, you don't need to explain to me. I remember how it was. What matters now is that you're home, safe and sound."

She frowned, but obediently agreed.

By the end of the week, Belle's father seemed well on his way to recovery, enough so that she could slip out to go to town and pick up some much needed supplies.

"Belle! You're back!" One of the townsfolk—the baker—called out in greeting. She smiled, and nodded, before continuing on her way. A sigh of relief whooshed past her lips. She loved her sisters dearly, but all three of them could be horrible gossips. Belle dreaded what would happen if the story about the dragon got out. Fear would be the reaction—no one would have forgotten the great Magic Wars of two hundred years ago, when dragons and wyverns had attacked the northern villages at random—and aggression, as well. No one wanted a dragon's nest anywhere near their village. She couldn't stand the thought of her dragon being hunted down like a monster.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts; she didn't notice the man that watched her. He was a tall, darkly handsome young man with arrogant eyes the color of cornflowers. Guy Poulinrey scowled as she hurried past him, completely oblivious to his presence. He would show her; he thought with a smirk, that he was the best man in the village. Especially once he brought back the head of that dragon her father had ranted and raved about, and her sisters had wept over. Wouldn't she be pleased then, with such a trophy to grace the entrance hall of their home?

Belle yelped as a hard arm seized her around the waist, and whirled her around to trap her against a hard body.

"Guy! Let me go!" she shrieked, struggling against his hold on her. Would the man never quit?

"Well, now, Belle, what kind of way is that to speak to your betrothed?" he asked, smooth voice silky with salacious intent.

"Guy! How many times do I have to say this? We are not betrothed! We never were, and we never will be! Now, put me _down_!"

Frowning again, he let her down, but kept a hold on her wrist. "Belle, when will you understand that you can't marry anyone else? We're perfectly suited, me and you. You're a beautiful woman, Belle, and I'm a decent looking man, yes? I can more than adequately support you, so you'll never want for anything."

"Except for equality, decent conversation, and love," she returned in biting tones. "I am my own person, Guy, not some bauble to dangle on a man's arm. Farewell!" With that, she yanked her arm away from him, and marched down the muddy street with all the poise and dignity of a queen.

He watched her go, grinning at her show of spirit. She'd come around, he was certain, and see that he was the best choice. Women always did what he wanted them to, when he wanted them to. Belle would be no different.


	13. Chapter Twelve

Chapter 12

_It's strange…you know the end of something great is coming,_

_But you want to hold on, just for one more second…_

_Just so it can hurt a little more._

—Anonymous

Early on the last day of the curse, the dragon stood over the silver basin, alarm and despair clutching his heart at what he could not see.

"Show me her," he asked it again. "Please—show me Belle." He only wanted to see her once more before it was too late, only to know that she was safe and happy.

Once again, nothing happened. The water didn't cloud, no pictures formed. It was simply water. Slowly, dizzy with pain and loss, he sank back down to the ground.

"No. No—why can't I see her? Why won't it work?" he mumbled. Shaking his head with bewilderment, he tried it a third time, with the same results. The magic was fading as his time ran out. It had been fading ever since Shaiya's death, twelve years before. Now, not only could he not touch, hear, or smell her—he couldn't even see her any longer.

Shaken to the core at the accelerated breakdown of his world, he padded away, ignoring the petals that whirled and eddied around his paws. He had mere hours left to be reverted back to his natural state, but what was that in the face of an eternity without Belle?

A thump from downstairs distracted him from the depression that had weighed on him since her departure. There wasn't anyone else in the castle, so who…?

Oh God, could it be?

The dragon turned swiftly, intent on going down to meet her, and stumbled heavily. He shook off the lightheadedness impatiently, and hurried to the door. It exploded inward before he could reach it, slamming into the stone behind it and causing him to skid to a halt in surprise.

A man stood where Belle should, a man wearing ornate armor and carrying a wicked-looking blade. Startled, the dragon blinked and drew away.

"So you're the monster that's been bothering Belle and that fool, Rhys," the man mused aloud, quite rudely. Automatically, the dragon bristled at his tone of condescension.

"Rather small for a dragon, aren't you, you ugly thing? I was led to believe you things were bigger," Guy continued, apparently to himself as he paced forward. This wouldn't be hard, he thought smugly, not hard at all. He lunged in at the stunned dragon, jabbing with the blade.

With a snarl of pain, the dragon drew back again, a gash on his front leg stinging and beginning to bleed.

"What right have you to come in here and attack me?" came the growling question, rolling like roughened thunder. The fact that he spoke seemed to surprise the man, but he recovered quickly.

"I am a Poulinrey," he shot back arrogantly; as though that meant the dragon should simply accept his fate and die. "What right have you to hold the citizens of my village captive? Especially the woman that is to be my _wife?_" He jabbed again, missing the dragon this time.

Denial mixed with anger and shock, to roil in the dragon's belly as the youth attacked. Belle couldn't have agreed to be this scoundrel's wife. God would not be as cruel as to trap her with the lout, surely.

"Poulinrey. I recognize that name—about a hundred years ago, your family were the village geese-mongers, yes?" he asked scathingly, twisting to avoid a reckless charge, and lashing out to rake his claws down the man's back, cutting through armor as if it were mere cloth. He scored five long scratches down Guy's back, meant more as a blow to pride then to body.

"You certainly fight like one, goose-boy. Your form is despicable," he sneered, knowing that the young man had an advantage all the same. Already, he could feel his dubious strength beginning to fade; flowing out of him like the blood was flowing from his wounds. Still, he didn't want to kill the man—he'd rather die at the moment then kill to protect as worthless a life as his own would soon become. That didn't mean he'd let the brat off easily, though, he decided as the sword pricked him again. And it certainly didn't mean that he would allow the bastard to marry Belle.

There was silence as they danced the graceful, bloody dance, stabbing and slashing at one another until both were covered in blood.

All of a sudden there was a roar of pain, akin to both rage and despair, as Guy's sword struck deep into the dragon's chest. He snarled as the sword sunk into his flesh, and lashed out a final time, catching the man on the arm, so that he too screamed in agony, though it was barely more than a bad scratch—thorny vines or an angry cat could have done more damage.

Panting, holding his bleeding arm, the man stumbled away from the downed dragon.

"You're finished, monster. You're dying," Guy gasped, too afraid to get close enough to take back his sword and finish the job properly.

"I was dying before you came, you fool," the dragon spat, trying to stay on shaking limbs. "You've just hurried it up for me. Now get out—before we see how far I can chase you into the woods."

He lunged, as though to catch the boy, purple flame licking at his teeth. A cry of terror streaming from his throat, Guy scampered back, out the door—and screamed, long and loud, when the magic of the castle seized him, and threw him bodily from the castle, into the woods. Even now, as it died, it would allow no physical harm it personally hadn't inflicted to come to its prisoner.

With the threat gone, the dragon eased down onto his side, yanking the sword from its place in his chest with a growl. He doubted he'd be allowed to die until the curse reached its conclusion—already the blood-flow was slowing to a mere drip—but after that, he would be spared the prolonged torment of starving to death. Only several more hours to suffer, then, he mused. A bitter chuckle rumbled quietly in the confines of grey stone, for if he didn't laugh, he would cry again.

The weather had turned dreary before noon, rain pouring from a bruise-like sky as though the gods themselves were in mourning. It wasn't long after the rain had started the Guy finally stumbled back into the village, armor discarded, shirt shredded and the scratches on his skin burning like hellfire.

It was, fittingly enough, Belle who found him. Her eyes widened at his condition.

"What happened? What have you done?" She could see that the man was in no danger, and was, if anything, only cockier now, for he grinned rakishly at her. Then it struck her—there was really only one creature in the forest that could cause such injuries. The dragon. Guy had gone after her dragon.

"I have rid you of your problem, my dear, once and for all," he promised, opening his arms for her to throw herself at him.

She drew away instead, face gone pale, whiskey eyes dark with something very like hatred.

"How could you, you heartless bastard? He's done nothing to you!" she hissed. Without another word, she turned, and fled towards home.

"Belle? Where are you going? Belle! _Belle!_"

Less than ten minutes later, a horse and rider flew from the village as though demons were at their heels, plunging through the silvery rain into the woods.

_Lost._ Dread swamped her as the word reverberated through her mind. Where was the castle? Why couldn't she find it now, when she could see the route so clearly in her mind?

Belle was soaked through, had been for hours now. The dim, watery light was starting to fade, and there was a terrible heaviness to the air, a kind of warning that pulsed through the forest, that frightened her.

_Blood seeped onto stone, staining granite and silver scales. Rose petals, the same ruby shade as the liquid, were scattered around like pieces of a broken heart. A shining silver blade gleamed in a corner, washed with red nearly to the hilt. His chest rose and fell labouredly, every breath the harbinger of another wave of pain._

Startled, she shook her head, and the vision faded like smoke.

The dragon—_her _dragon—was dying.

"Oh, my God! Hang on—please, you have to just hang on!"

Horse and rider surged forward again, determined to find what was determined to hide from them.

He coughed—a singularly painful experience when one has a hole in one's chest that was nearly the size of a rose in full bloom. Blood splattered on the stone floor, joining the larger puddle that had been forming there, drop by drop, for hours. Panting, he lay back again, wishing that one of the two pains in his chest would go numb already, like the rest of his body. He didn't care which, either his shoulder or his heart. Both blazed with pain, one physical, the other less tangible.

Surely it was a sign that his time was finally coming to a close when the angel appeared to him, standing framed in the doorway. Or maybe, he considered musingly, he was simply hallucinating from the blood loss. After all, Belle couldn't be standing over him, her tears streaming down her pale cheeks to mingle with the rainwater that drenched her hair and clothing. The enchantment, even dying, wouldn't have allowed it.

"You're…very real…for a hallucination," he murmured as she—it—pressed gentle fingers to his wound. It throbbed again, but he was too used to the pain to notice much.

See? The pain was starting to fade away.

"No, no—you're not hallucinating. You're going to be alright. Do you hear me? You'll be alright," she insisted, ripping at her skirt.

"I am not…dreaming this? How strange. Belle…" a clawed paw lifted, covering her hands soothingly, as careful as ever with her fragile skin. "It's…too late. I'm dying."

"No!" She shook her head in denial, the tears streaming down her face even harder now. "No, you can't!"

But Belle could see the acceptance of it in his eyes.

Whatever answer he might have made was lost in another fit of coughing, the blood coming more quickly now. And now he would inflict on her this final discomfort, he thought regretfully—having to watch him die.

"I'm sorry. But…it is…best this way…" He found he looked forward to the end of the pain. She would be free of him then; free to forget her strange sojourn in an enchanted castle, her time as an honored guest of an ensorcelled dragon.

"No! Never! How can you say that?" Belle demanded, her soft hands at glaring odds with the steel in her voice. The contrast brought a smile to his changeable eyes. They were violet now, with love.

"'_If music be the food of…love, play on…Give me excess of it…that surfeiting…the appetite may sicken…and so die.'_ Belle, love, it is…much too late for…"

The dragon jerked, eyes widening as his heart stuttered once, twice—

"…_me_…"

"No! Please! Don't—Oh, God, please, no—I love you! You can't quote Shakespeare to me and then die! No!"

It came too late. His eyelids flickered closed as if he hadn't heard, and his labored breathing choked and halted.

The last petal, deepest of reds, tinged with blue, drifted from the basin and landed softly beside the dragon's head, on her lap.

Sobbing, she bowed her head over his unresponsive body, weeping for him, for her, for what never could have been.

It didn't come in a blinding flash of light. There was no music, or birdsong, or anything else storytellers like to add into a story when the evil curse is broken—possibly because the curse and the sorceress hadn't been evil. It was sudden, though, and as unstoppable as flame. Like velvet, magic in its purest form slid around the still form of the dragon, as red as the blood he'd spilled onto the stone floor. Belle was pushed away from him, slammed back against the bed as power whirled around the room. She may have screamed, but if she had, she would have no memory of it. Instead, she would remember shining magic, every color imaginable—greens, blues, reds, every shade of grey from purest white to darkest black, and some colors that she'd never seen before, and would never see again.

If there was a sound to the exhibition of magic, then it would be the throaty chuckle of a woman pleased with a day's work, kind and generous and matronly.

And then, nothing.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_And finally, knowing that you've all been waiting for it…._

Chapter 13

"_That which we call a rose  
by any other name would smell as sweet."_

—Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

The girl blinked in the early morning light that was streaming in through the window, and sat up from where she'd lain on the stone floor, curled up beside the large four-poster bed. Not far away, a man lay still, sprawled on his back, longish silver hair mussed, the worn-out elegance of his clothing slightly baggy around his spare frame. Wincing at muscles sore from a night sleeping on solid stone and praying that she wouldn't find him dead, Belle crawled over.

"Please, please, open your eyes," she murmured, putting a hand to his shoulder and shaking gently. There was warmth under her palm and his chest rose and fell softly. The man's eyelids flickered, and opened slowly, dazedly, revealing the dragon's eyes – glittering silver, tinged with purple flame.

"Belle?"

The voice was a croak, but odd – not the deep, nearly subsonic boom of the dragon, but still gravelly enough to be recognizable. The man – Julian – frowned, startled by the different timbre of his own voice. The frown eased when Belle nodded, but deepened again when he saw tears of relief and joy gathering in her amber eyes.

"No, Belle, don't cry," he lifted a hand to her cheek, and froze at the sight of a _hand _where a paw had been for so long. With something like awe etched into his angular face he curled and uncurled his fingers, amazed to see skin. His eyes, greening with shock, sought hers.

"Is—is this a dream? Have I died? Why are you here?"

She grasped his hand and pulled it to her face before answering.

"No, this isn't a dream—or if it is, we're sharing. And you certainly haven't died. You're alive."

With a hoarse laugh, he sat up and tugged her into his arms, and clung as tightly as she.

"You did it, Belle—had you any idea? You've ended Shaiya's curse," he murmured to her hair, reveling in being human, and in holding her. "You've saved me."

Belle held him, her head spinning.

"Curse? What cur—_Grand-mére_ cursed you?" She pulled away, eyes wide and demanding answers.

"That's what happened? That's horrible!" She was shocked. How could Grand-mere do so cruel a thing?

He chuckled softly, framing her face with his hands, brushing newly reacquired thumbs softly over her cheekbones.

"Belle, you've heard the story. Shaiya was grieving, and angry, and young."

"But you were betrothed! How could she—"

"Belle," he stopped her tirade with a word, amusement in his eyes and voice. "Belle, I wasn't a…a nice person when she cursed me—I was rather a lot like your friend Poulinrey. Admittedly, the fault was not entirely mine—my parents share some of the blame for that—but essentially, I was an unkind, uncaring person. Shaiya and I had been friends as children, before we were betrothed. She formed slightly deeper feelings for me.

"Not love," he assured her, when she would have broken in again. "Whatever it was, it wasn't love. I was more or less indifferent to her, though. I was far too busy attempting to embarrass my parents with a lifestyle of hell-raising and debauchery to care much. That was a prick to her pride, I imagine."

"But…" Belle protested weakly.

"By the time my father and hers went at each other with rapiers, we were completely disenchanted with each other, Belle. After that, the betrothal was dissolved, and we were at war. We weren't star-crossed lovers by any stretch of the imagination. It was simply my ill luck and her brother's—your great-uncle, I suppose—that killed him, and her grief that, ah…changed me."

"Why aren't you terribly angry about having been changed?" she asked.

"A hundred years is more than enough to damper any personal grudge. Besides, what good would it do me? Shaiya's been dead for eleven years."

She blinked. "How did you know that?"

"The mirror, Belle. I saw her funeral, and you, though I didn't realize at the time." A thoughtful look crossed his face. "She really did an excellent job of it, didn't she? The curse, I mean. I was a dragon for long enough to change, and in time to meet you."

He took her hands, and then frowned at the iciness of her flesh.

"Belle, you must be freezing in those damp things. You'll warm up, and then we'll talk." He turned to the fireplace, drawing in breath, and stopped, feeling very foolish.

"This will take getting used to," he muttered, standing unsteadily, and pulling her up beside him. "Come on. Let's go down to the library—it's warmer down there, and I believe there's tinder and flint hidden somewhere."

A crashing sound from outside stopped him. Shouting, clanging, and singing all poured through the window. With a frown, the ex-dragon reversed his direction, and padded over to the window instead, moving fluidly for someone who'd spent the majority of his life on four paws. He gave a low whistle at whatever he saw, and turned back to her.

"Belle, my dear, have you any idea why the population of your village is here? They seem to be singing an old battle hymn, and are brandishing assorted weaponry."

Belle gasped, and hurried over to stand beside her…man. The village was indeed singing an old battle song, and bore a variety of makeshift weapons. They'd already burst through the gates, and were bearing down on the front doors with a battering ram made of a tree trunk. To the side was Guy, perched on a bay gelding, shouting them on. Beside her, Julian—his human form had always been Julian to her—cocked his head to the side, considering the scene below him.

"Your friend there has delusions of grandeur, Belle. This is the second time he's attempted to storm my castle in as many days. I think that I should have hit him harder," he murmured regretfully.

"Yes," she replied, anger curling in her belly, remembering what Guy had done to him. "Yes, I think you should have."

The man-who-had-been-a-dragon glanced at her. "Easy, love. 'Sweet are the uses of adversity,' you know. Let's go greet our…guests."

"I don't see how," Belle responded, following as he led her down to the front hall. "I'd prefer to have Guy simply drop dead."

"Ah, Belle, my love, there is nothing more that I would rather show you, now that I am human again, than why patience is a virtue. Well, perhaps not a _virtue_…" he shook his head, his lips tugging into a crooked smile. He had been so careful about suppressing any thought of Belle in such a way as a dragon; it was good to know that he could feel it now. The idea of lusting after her when he'd had the form of a dragon had horrified him in ways he hadn't realized he could be horrified. To think, he reflected, amused, a rakehell with sensibilities!

"However, first you are going to have to accept my proposal, and your father is going to have to be convinced that he _doesn't_ want to tack my hide above the mantle."

"Pro-proposal!"

Belle didn't have a chance to get any further than that, though, because they had reached their destination, and the man was already by the doors. He threw them open, his slender body belying a wiry strength.

There was a sudden collective hush at the sight of a man, and not the promised dragon. There were gasps when Belle, more composed now, walked over to stand beside Julian. Guy was spluttering atop his bay at the sight of the two of them. Armel, who she'd left to his own devices after pulling the saddle and bridle off, was being held by her brother-in-law.

"Good afternoon. May I help all of you ladies and gentlemen?" he asked, quite congenially. Only Belle realized just how much control he was expending to keep from laughing. He always grew more polite as he struggled against laughter. She supposed he would find this amusing; to have been un-cursed only minutes before one was confronted with a mob prepared to kill the monster.

"Uh," the baker said succinctly, "Uh, wasn't there supposed to be a dragon? Guy said…"

The dragon-man blinked. "A dragon? I doubt it." His hands locked tightly behind his back, the only outward sign of his humor. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Julian DesRosiers. I've only just come back to check on my family's holdings a week ago—I met Mademoiselle Belle in Paris not long before we both returned," he added. Mutters broke out, as people remembered the DesRosiers name—the Marquis's family that had disappeared abruptly, a hundred years before.

"She didn't say nothin' about you," a gruff voice called out.

Guy seemed to snap out of his stupor. "That's because _he_ wasn't here! There was a dragon—a big silver dragon with black eyes! I stabbed it, I tell you!"

Julian ignored Guy as one ignores a small, obnoxious child that had just interrupted a very important conversation. "I had asked her not to, yet—The castle is sadly in need of repairs, and I'd wanted to assess the damage before I hired laborers or staff. I was worried that the place might be dangerous, and that people might enter before I had arrived."

Faces cleared, grins broke out at the prospect of high-paying work, or potential artisan customers. Guy looked enraged.

"You lie! There was a dragon—I fought it myself!" He yelled, raving.

Julian's eyebrow rose, both disbelieving and mocking. "Really? I suggest you see a doctor, if you're seeing such things—such delusions must be detrimental to your health." He frowned, keeping up the pretence of concern, and worked to dispel any lingering doubts. "There has been no one in the castle except for myself, and Belle, briefly, when the weather forced us in out of the rain."

Sheepishly, the crowd started to disperse. There was obviously no dragon—old Rhys had apparently been into his cups again, and Guy…well, everyone knew he'd always demanded the spotlight. No one much paid him any attention these days. Not really.

Guy was clearly not swayed. With a clumsy heave, the man swung from the bay, and stomped up to Julian, who merely watched the younger man with narrowed eyes.

"There was a dragon here, not even a day ago—I know; I killed the beast myself. Now tell the truth, knave," he spat, shaking with fury.

Julian chuckled, completely without humor. "Forget me so soon, goose-boy? I'd think you'd remember who you stab," he mocked quietly, eyes changing to gilded silver.

Guy's face went white, then grey, then green. "You—_you're—?_"

"You'll find I am even more difficult to kill in this form, my dear goose-boy," The former dragon told him, almost challenging him. "And you couldn't kill me here, in front of these people, anyway."

With a cry, Guy lunged forward, swinging wildly with his fists, nearly crashing into Belle as he charged. Completely unfazed by the careening fists, Julian stepped to the side, seized the boy's wrist as his stumbled passed, and wrenched it up behind his back, nearly to breaking point, the only thing belying his fierce anger were his eyes, which were slipping to orange.

"Leave this village, Poulinrey. You are a nuisance, a pest I find reluctant to share breathing room with. I'm sure there is some other village you can annoy."

"You can't just evict me! I live here!" Guy snarled indignantly; face burning bright red from the humiliation. The villagers had stopped their retreat, turned to watch on interestedly, waiting to see what this noble new-comer would do.

"Watch me, goose-boy. And if you ever come near Belle again, I'll be sure to kill you very, very slowly. _Do I make myself clear?_" Julian inquired softly, so that only Guy could hear.

Guy nodded furiously, terrified of the silken intimidation in the man's voice, knowing from experience that he'd back it up.

"Excellent. Asha, perhaps, would be a good start. I advise you go. _Now_."

He fled once released, without a single look back, and scrambled onto the bay he'd left waiting. With a shout and a kick, the horse sprang away, into a wild gallop that would likely kill one, or both, of them if they weren't careful.

Belle came up beside Julian. "What did you say to him?"

Another peculiar smile flitted around the man's lips as he looked at her, one she would have recognized as the twitch of his tail as a dragon. "Things better left unrepeated, my dear," he murmured, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips unashamedly.

"Belle, will you marry me?" he inquired softly. He didn't know what he would do if she refused. Somehow, though, he couldn't see her refusing.

"M-Marriage? But—" the girl stammered, half-ecstatic, half-terrified with love. Her mind rushed, thoughts of a home, children, life with the dra—Julian, bounding and colliding within her. His eyes held hers, glowing purple; his hand was warm on hers, holding it inches from his lips. At her protest, his head cocked to the side, the beginnings of anxiety nipping at his gut.

"You weren't afraid when I was a dragon, but now that I'm a man, you are."

She blanched at the flat statement. "No, it's not that—really, it's not," she insisted at his dubiously raised eyebrow. "I think you must be mixing up gratitude and love, and I don't want us both to be miserable. I don't think I could stand it if we discovered a year from now that we couldn't stand each other," she finished, staring at the ground at their feet.

A hand slipped under her chin, easing it up, so she would look him in the eye. She could see confusion, and unease tinting the purple fire of his irises with silver and green flecks.

"Belle, we've coexisted for nearly four months and managed to become friends. We are in love with each other." He smiled at the jolt she gave, a reassuring smile still tinged with the slightest bit of fear. "The only way to break the curse was to love and be loved, truly. The curse is broken. What's left is the love." But she could see that he was beginning to doubt her feelings.

When she still did not smile back at him, his smile dropped away, and took both her hands in his.

"Why don't you wish to marry, Belle? Can you tell me that, at least?" Julian lifted them to his mouth again, pressed a not-quite chaste kiss to the center of each. The touch sent tingles of awareness through her system, and made her stomach tighten.

"I—I don't know. It's—I—" she blushed miserably. "I'm frightened."

"Ah, Belle, don't you know? I am too. It is part of being in love, I think." He leaned forward, pressed another kiss to her forehead. Relief that it was fear and not revulsion that had her hesitating rocketed through him. Fear he could deal with. "I would rather be a monster with you than a man without you, Belle. You know that, yes?"

"I—yes, alright," Belle finally said. His smile was sudden and brilliant, displaying teeth that were still just a bit sharper than a normal man's might be. "But I want to wait a few months before we marry," she added, stopping him when he would have drawn her closer to him, still just a bit in awe that _he_ could love _her_.

"You'll see, Belle. I love you," he grinned, and added, "I'll simply keep saying it until you believe me."

Belle smiled finally, the warm smile that had caught his heart, and rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. Seeing him smile like that, hearing happiness in his voice, and knowing she had a part in it, convinced her of his feelings and hers. She pulled away, and enjoyed the look of slightly stunned pleasure on his face.

"I've always like summer weddings," she laughed, and laughed again when Julian swooped down to steal another kiss from her, pulling her close to him. The crowd of villagers broke through their little bubble of romance with cheers and whistles for the already popular new couple, bringing a bright blush to Belle's face, and a sheepish grin to her fiancé's. She smiled up at him, linking her hand with his.

"I'd like that," he murmured, tucking an arm around her waist as they began to walk towards the villagers. "I'd like that very much."

THANKS VERY MUCH to PlusSizeAngel, beelzemongirl, Lotte Rose 37, cucumber fairy, Clara Spencer, Kyra Gwin, PenInk, Pimpernel Princess, cluts808, Tk, Lauren, Smiling Pancake, and anyone else who commented, for being so patient, and liking my story. 3


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